substantial. After a moment more of
struggle, his concentration faltered and the vision collapsed into itself.
Ealad-hach
blinked. On its pedestal, the crystal sat, lightless and inert, not even a
whisper of aislinn mist clinging to its facets. He felt old. Frail. Worn. He
felt barely able to gather up the crystal and return it to its carved and
filigreed box, but he did. Then he knelt and prayed that he would be cursed
with vivid dreams.
CHAPTER 5
The wood of the soul can burn and be fire;
the Word of the Spirit is the whirling friction rod above.
Prayer is the power that makes the Word turn
round. And when the Word moves, the mystery of God comes to light.
— Prayers and Meditations of Osraed Ochan, vs. 5
Wyth
found sleep difficult. The merest straying from consciousness left him
literally bewildered, mired in thick emotion, or reeling on the edge of
Ruanaidhe’s Leap. In the chill before dawn, he pulled himself fully awake to
sit, head in hands, trying not to think. His brain felt like a sodden bath
fleece.
He
wanted to pray, but wasn’t certain he wanted the enlightenment he knew he
should ask for. He wanted to draw out the visions he could feel pressing like a
physical force behind his eyes, but what he fled in sleep was no easier to face
awake.
The
heavy pain in his head at last drove him to draw a cup of scented water from a
carafe by the bed and rifle his medicament chest for some willow bark. There
was none. Instead, he smudged his temples with a pungent salve and sat,
coil-legged, on his bed to perform a Healweave.
Candle
in hand, eyes on the flame, he breathed in and sang out, letting the duan float
away from him, praying it would take the pain with it. The runesong was only
six lines long; Wyth was halfway though it the second time when the pain
evaporated so suddenly and completely, it stopped the duan in his throat. The
salve’s ice-hot touch penetrated his senses and he imagined, for a moment, that
he had felt an actual caress of warm fingers. He took a deep, relaxed breath,
letting some gentle force tug him upward out of his tired, awkward frame.
The
flame of his candle, steady one moment, guttered and died as if unseen fingers
had snuffed it. In his advanced state of relaxation, he could only stare at the
glowing wick with mild bemusement, and wonder why, with the candle out, the
room seemed to be growing lighter. He would turn his head and glance at the
window, he decided. He would see that the Sun was rising.
But
his head would not turn, and at the foot of his bed a soft, golden radiance
manifested itself in a way that no sunrise ever had, looking like airborne
gold-dust or a galaxy of golden stars. He felt it then, the dawn of a sweet,
savory terror. A rapture of quaking awareness. She was here, and his desire for
Her flowed, pure and shining, toward the gilded whorl that seemed always and
never on the verge of taking shape.
She
sang in his head, voice crystal-bright. Without words, She communicated
perfectly what he must know to take his next several steps down Her Path. He
tasted bits of the future, saw it, smelled it, heard it sing and roar and wail.
He trembled with a thousand kinds of joy and pain and anger. He laughed and
wept and both at once, and woke lying on his face across his coiled legs while
the Sun filled his room with solid light.
He
blinked at its brightness, feeling at once reassured and barren. The pain and
weariness were gone, but so was that warm touch. He schooled himself to
patience, knowing he would feel it again.
He
was down early for his breakfast, before his sisters could be up—he hoped
before his mother. Industrious Fleta, Adken’s wife, had already fed her own
family and the other servants and hands, releasing them to their play or
chores. She was fussing about the spotless tiled kitchen with Wyth wandered in.
Adken sipped tea by the broad hearth.
“Master
Wyth!” Fleta dropped the skirts of her apron, on which she’d been dusting
flour-coated hands, and
struggle, his concentration faltered and the vision collapsed into itself.
Ealad-hach
blinked. On its pedestal, the crystal sat, lightless and inert, not even a
whisper of aislinn mist clinging to its facets. He felt old. Frail. Worn. He
felt barely able to gather up the crystal and return it to its carved and
filigreed box, but he did. Then he knelt and prayed that he would be cursed
with vivid dreams.
CHAPTER 5
The wood of the soul can burn and be fire;
the Word of the Spirit is the whirling friction rod above.
Prayer is the power that makes the Word turn
round. And when the Word moves, the mystery of God comes to light.
— Prayers and Meditations of Osraed Ochan, vs. 5
Wyth
found sleep difficult. The merest straying from consciousness left him
literally bewildered, mired in thick emotion, or reeling on the edge of
Ruanaidhe’s Leap. In the chill before dawn, he pulled himself fully awake to
sit, head in hands, trying not to think. His brain felt like a sodden bath
fleece.
He
wanted to pray, but wasn’t certain he wanted the enlightenment he knew he
should ask for. He wanted to draw out the visions he could feel pressing like a
physical force behind his eyes, but what he fled in sleep was no easier to face
awake.
The
heavy pain in his head at last drove him to draw a cup of scented water from a
carafe by the bed and rifle his medicament chest for some willow bark. There
was none. Instead, he smudged his temples with a pungent salve and sat,
coil-legged, on his bed to perform a Healweave.
Candle
in hand, eyes on the flame, he breathed in and sang out, letting the duan float
away from him, praying it would take the pain with it. The runesong was only
six lines long; Wyth was halfway though it the second time when the pain
evaporated so suddenly and completely, it stopped the duan in his throat. The
salve’s ice-hot touch penetrated his senses and he imagined, for a moment, that
he had felt an actual caress of warm fingers. He took a deep, relaxed breath,
letting some gentle force tug him upward out of his tired, awkward frame.
The
flame of his candle, steady one moment, guttered and died as if unseen fingers
had snuffed it. In his advanced state of relaxation, he could only stare at the
glowing wick with mild bemusement, and wonder why, with the candle out, the
room seemed to be growing lighter. He would turn his head and glance at the
window, he decided. He would see that the Sun was rising.
But
his head would not turn, and at the foot of his bed a soft, golden radiance
manifested itself in a way that no sunrise ever had, looking like airborne
gold-dust or a galaxy of golden stars. He felt it then, the dawn of a sweet,
savory terror. A rapture of quaking awareness. She was here, and his desire for
Her flowed, pure and shining, toward the gilded whorl that seemed always and
never on the verge of taking shape.
She
sang in his head, voice crystal-bright. Without words, She communicated
perfectly what he must know to take his next several steps down Her Path. He
tasted bits of the future, saw it, smelled it, heard it sing and roar and wail.
He trembled with a thousand kinds of joy and pain and anger. He laughed and
wept and both at once, and woke lying on his face across his coiled legs while
the Sun filled his room with solid light.
He
blinked at its brightness, feeling at once reassured and barren. The pain and
weariness were gone, but so was that warm touch. He schooled himself to
patience, knowing he would feel it again.
He
was down early for his breakfast, before his sisters could be up—he hoped
before his mother. Industrious Fleta, Adken’s wife, had already fed her own
family and the other servants and hands, releasing them to their play or
chores. She was fussing about the spotless tiled kitchen with Wyth wandered in.
Adken sipped tea by the broad hearth.
“Master
Wyth!” Fleta dropped the skirts of her apron, on which she’d been dusting
flour-coated hands, and
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